


The Journal of Sherlock Holmes

by Cchenyaa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bromance, F/F, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cchenyaa/pseuds/Cchenyaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone is what protects Sherlock Holmes, but also what hurts him the most. John Watson is getting married to Mary Morstan, Sherlock is the best man. The groom and the bride exchange vows but something happens in-between their words, when a little finger searches for the comfort of the best man's hand. Written mostly from Sherlock Holmes POV, some crime and mystery but mostly a love story in the making. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is not a journal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steelwater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelwater/gifts).



> First of all I want to thank Steelwater for her beta-reading and for being such a great friend with whom I can share my Sherlock feels. Love you gurly!
> 
> Second, the fic is set from "The Sign of Three" and continues on to depict some of what happened in "His Last Vow" so those of you who haven't already watched the third series of this brilliant show - beware! Spoilers ahead!
> 
> Thirdly, some of what is written here is inspired by a great Swedish TV series called: "Bron/Broen", but nothing spoilery, if you haven't already - WATCH!
> 
> Last but not least - you'll have to excuse my English, since it's not my mother tongue :) thank you for reading!

** These are the memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, written by Sherlock Holmes for his eyes only. If you're not that man why is it of any interest to you? Please return it safely to its place, though I will know from the marks of your sticky fingers that you found it. And I will find you. **

Part 1:

Not that it's anyone's business. John calls this his remedy, his way of handling the demons from his past as a soldier. I'm not traumatized by anything, I've seen wars, the bodies of men and women lay beneath my feet, and I was brave enough to gather all I could about them so I could solve their riddles. I mean, murders. Not that I need to explain myself to a piece of paper like you. Oh great, now I'm imposing an entity on this notebook. I don't see any problem with that. Before John stepped into my life I used to talk to a skull. Where did I put it, anyway? It used to be such a nice place to hide my stash in. I should ask Mrs. Hudson about it.

Anyway, notebook, you got me off track.  Time is not on my side anymore. Two years I've been away and it seems as if much more time has passed. Molly is engaged, Mrs. Hudson got back to her marijuana habit. She won't admit it, but I see her flinching her fingers every time I mention the drug. I sometimes do it on purpose, when it's just her and I, and I invent a case just to see the way in which she reacts to my words. Mrs. Hudson, no matter what you do, without you the world would really fall.

Gene hasn't changed much, still doing his best serving the Scotland Yard. And by his best I mean calling me whenever there's a case. Detective inspector Lestrade, I wonder when is he going to get over his marriage failure and stop inflicting it on his job. Sally Donovan could be a good fit for him, now that Anderson has fallen to the realm of the ludicrous. Last time I saw her, she started to wear cleavages as deep as Mycroft's ego and she was all over Gene.

I just let out a deep sigh, as if I had to inhale every bit of oxygen (and dust, I should tell that to Mrs. Hudson), fill my lungs, and calm down. It happens a lot lately when I think about him. John. John Watson. And it's getting harder and harder to exhale. I always forget about that. John seemed to have deleted it from my brain. But why does this happen to me? I guess breathing is not overrated after all. But you are, my dear notebook. You are redundant. Look, here I wrote at least 400 words that don't even scratch an inch of what's going on in my mind. What was I talking about? Oh, John. He's married now god forbid. God? How did you get in my vocabulary??? Get out now!

I need a cigarette, my arm is already two patched, and I'm not in the midst of solving any murder. All is calm and peaceful again, no games or ruin, just what people call life, and all I want is one more patch to fix this state I'm in. Oh, Sherlock, continuous changing of the subject, you are in denial. But of what?

Anyway, John. Last night he got married to Mary Morstan, now Watson, it's that inhale-no-exhale thing again, and it doesn't seem to be conscious or subconscious. It's coming from the abdominal area. Maybe two slaps to my face would help me concentrate.

Now back to last night's battlefield. People seemed to have liked my speech, although it lacked coherence, but in the end I solved a case, so I guess there are happy endings to some stories. Of course John was there, and Mary, who strangely believed in me and helped us save John's previous commander. (What was his name? Shelter?) She's what Mrs. Hudson would call a sweetheart. Mary has been good to John, keeping him in check, so he wouldn't do anything stupid. John was never suicidal. He enjoyed life, he thrived when it exploded in front of him, he needs it more than death. At least I thought so until that day when I presumably jumped off the rooftop of St. Barts. Something in my phone call broke his voice. It was so soft, he was trying to understand what kind of game I was playing with him, and when I finally made my way down, his scream was… overwhelming. Every step I took falling down cleared my head until when landing on the blue trampoline. I noticed there was only one thing on my mind - John's voice, shouting my name out to the roof, out to me, out to the wreck I was about to make of him. Sorry. Sorry John. It's never going to be enough, isn't it? It was then I finally comprehended that life for John is not so certain anymore. What will he do without me?

So, the wedding. John needs some more practice on his Waltz moves. They're going to have a baby. Mary is pregnant.It all changes. Denial is good, let's stick to it. What's there to deny? Oh, the speech, I bared too much really, laid out too much of myself out there, I need to fix that. Should invite Mycroft for a game of Operation. He'll probably come here in a few hours, some kind of controversy in Malaysia, he probably had something to do with this, will have to talk about it without saying anything to me. He didn't go to the wedding, probably afraid of cake. Why do I get off track all of the time? Concentrate Sherlock, what is it that you're trying to say, what made you pick up this notebook from the shop and buy it? What was the idea behind all of this?

Another not-conscious-nor-subconscious act. Where did it all come from? Damn, another exhale-non-inhale slight of the chest. There was something before the speech that bothers me. Watching all those people, so well dressed, so over-loving, so happy. It was horrid. Why do people keep on feeling all the time? It's all just one big distraction. But that's not it, there was something beforehand. A slight touch of a finger. Yes, I'm breathing now. In the alter, I was standing behind John as best men do at weddings. Everybody assembled in a great hall lighted by the sun, the colors were so alive. Why am I being romantic all of a sudden? Back to the vows. It was just about then. I was standing behind John, and that's when it all started, the inhale-non-exhale phenomenon. It crept down my throat to my chest and until now it seizes me every time I try to breathe.

I held one hand firmly behind me, the left one,, keeping myself in a stiff and straightened composure, like best men should do. I read about it in... where was it? Deleted it. The other hand I kept in my pocket, as droplets of sweat started to appear, a sign of excitement, or rather weakness, didn't want to expose that in front of a crowd of such happy people. As Mary was walking down the aisle I inspected the hall, keeping track of everyone, they all should watch Mary, with a slight smile, maybe share a look with their company, but Mary should be the center of attention. Probably read it also in a magazine. I finished my inspection looking at John. He looked serene, his grin showed he was amazed and couldn't quite hide it. He was unbelievably contented. He cleared his throat once or twice, which in John's case is a sign of calming his thoughts and concentrating. No, he was overwhelmed. When Mary finally got in front of us I could see both of them sharing such a moment, and a sudden need to pinch myself came. Before I knew it, my sweating hand was hurting my upper thigh. The priest said something like "bla bla bla", wasn't interesting. When it was time for the vows, Mary said some fine words about not believing she would find her man, she lied, she found some men before, her shoulders popped up a bit when she said that, then her gaze went right down to her shoes. She was nervous saying this, why?

When it was time for John to say his vows to Mary, I handed him the note he wrote a couple of days before the wedding. I gave it to him using my left arm, the one which was not sweating all over my pocket. He rejected the note and instead took Mary's hands in his. "Mary", he chuckled, "I can't wait to prove to you how worthy I am of you". He gathered himself, "we met when I was… well… an utter mess, and you genuinely saved me from myself at that time". He took a deep breath, and I did so as well, louder than I intended it to be, and this caught John's attention. He loosened his grip from Mary and looked back at me with slight rage, like I was interrupting him. But just a second before returning to Mary his face softened, he realized something, and from then on his voice was different.

"I can't thank you enough Mary, for all the love that you've given me I…", he looked back, another raged look, "I promise to cherish you for all the rest of time, and I can't wait for our future", another chuckle, quick gaze at me. While he was moving his head back to Mary he said "I love you." Not sure to whom. It looked like he was saying it to the entire hall, guests, priest and cat included. By now my upper right thigh was numb, and I only realized it then. He gathered himself again, holding his hands behind his back, one little finger free to do whatever it wanted. "I love you." he said again straight to his future wife, while his finger reached my left palm, brushing it in a circular motion. No one else had seen this, I checked. This moment was mine and John's alone, and my right hand finally let go of my thigh. A few seconds passed, John giggled quietly, like it was meant for my ear and my ear only. He took away his finger. The moment was over. My left hand returned to its safe haven behind my back. They shared a long kiss, no tongue, just two lips meeting gently, turning into two smiles. Oh, familial bliss, not for me, thank you. I was just rubbing my palm, trying to get the sense of what it meant to me.

Look what you did notebook, 400 words just turned approximately to 1800. Mycroft is here, now where should I hide you?

 


	2. The case of being involved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll have to excuse my English, since it's not my mother tongue :)

I swear I almost forgot about you. Your existence crossed my mind just now after I had the misfortune of working without my blogger. That's John, you see. Or read. I'm writing as if you are flesh and blood, which suggests that I'm getting attached to you. Not good at all. But my blogger was busy visiting the doctor with his wife. Of course, they could have come to me, and I would have said that everything is alright with the fetus. I could tell by the angle of Mary's belly and the way it took shape. But no, they don't trust me. John is always so kin on keeping their business as private as he can. Their business. They.

So today was a very exciting day I went to see if there were any interesting bodies in the morgue to fit into my study of the decomposition of nails after death. Wanted to make sure that everything I knew was in check. Molly found it fitting to give me updates on her relationship with… let's call him Tracy. They had a big fight about whether or not they should get another dog, and of course she didn't fail to mention that they had great make-up sex. I told her Tracy didn't find it as great, since it seems that she had to walk the dog (traces of dog hair left on the lower parts of her jeans). Had he found the sex so fulfilling, he would have done anything to please her, like going on a nice walk with their precious pet. As always, she didn't really appreciate the true evidence I laid before her and we almost ended our affair bitterly. But a sudden and incidental touch on my palm from someone behind me reminded me of the wedding, and something strange came over me. I apologized to Molly and wished her a good day. She didn't reply, probably surprised just as well as I was by my apology.

Just as I was about to leave I got a call from Lestrade. George bestowed upon me a wonderful case. At around the same time I got a text from John, saying that everything is fine. I replied with a quick "Obviously" and embarked on my new adventure.

Lestrade was waiting for me with a beautiful body. Sally was there too, with a dumb smirk on her face. Her knees were shaking, and this time it wasn't Anderson. Nor was it Lestrade, whose hands were shoved deeply in his pockets, a frown gracing his face. He wasn't content with what was going on around him.

"I guess you had a meeting with your ex-wife this afternoon". Lestrade didn't even answer and just gestured for me to begin my work. A quick glance at the people around me, no one was interesting but the body.

Male, mid forties, his clothes suggested he was a serious man, Londoner, working in stock exchange, wasn't very kin on fashion.

He lay on his stomach, his head on its side. Blood marks showed he was hit by something heavy, the scratches marked that it was a brick. But this wasn't the cause of death.

No signs of bullets or vomit, no alcohol scent coming from his mouth, his eyes open, probably wasn't expecting his offender.

"So what do you make of it?" I heard a voice asking behind me. I told Lestrade to be quiet. He grunted, saying that he didn't let out a sound. "Come on, Mr. Obviously, what's going on here?" asked the voice. I turned around again, Lestrade was chatting with some other fool of an inspector. No one was around me. I hoped it wasn't another case of the talking corpse, although then I was under the wonderful influence of cocaine. Now I was clean, one-patched and ready to roll. I talked to the voice while I checked the man's pockets, since no one else was there to listen. Only found a ticket, on one side was typed "thanks for coming", on the other "CAM" written in bold black letters. A note like that could be a hint for where and when the next murder would occur. This murderer left a trace, he wants us to keep track of him, he's going to do it again. When I told that to Lestrade he askd me if I can manage to think about where it leads from here. Nothing was on him, no wallet, no money, no picture of his husband (heavy on hair products), just this card. Who's CAM? And why did he hunt this man? Had it been political, he would have been blunter in the card. No, it was something personal. His body was cold, but seemed well preserved. If he was attacked in this crowded street, someone would have noticed. But there were no witnesses to the crime. "Come on, wise-arse ,what is it?" the voice, now familiar, re-emerged, and I couldn't help myself and shouted "SHUT UP JOHN!" to the cold air. It startled some of the clowns around me, the new ones mostly, but the rest just kept on with their work of contaminating the crime scene. They were used to this, I became too much aware of it. I missed him. "People fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, don't they Sherlock?".  
  


I gave all the information I had to George. This man wasn't shot, no marks of a knife. He seemed healthy, well, healthy for a dead man, no alcohol or drugs. He was dead long before the brick hit him. The murderer wanted it to look as if the man died from the getting hit by a brick. This body was the note. But who was it addressed to? This was a planned scheme, but against whom? Who's going to be the next victim? Oh, it just started to feel like Christmas.

I called Mrs. Hudson, asked her to buy some milk and maybe some fish and chips. This was going to be a long night.

When I arrived at 221B a large amount of fried potatoes waited for me, along with a carton of milk and a card saying "I'm not your housekeeper, learn your manners Mr. Holmes". The food was still warm, so was the milk. She wanted a revenge. She partly succeeded in it. I put the milk in the fridge, sat on the sofa and enjoyed the meal. Only, something wasn't right by where I sat. This was't the usual couch I sat on. This was John's sit, where he would read the papers while a mannequin was hanging behind him. There he would sit and listen to clients with great care, while I was already solving their cases and rushing them to get out so I can find a dose of a more interesting riddle to solve. This is not where I'm supposed to eat, but on the other hand, he's not going to eat here again. That's when I remembered you. You're going to be my John notebook from now on, anything that would remind me of him will be described here so I can get it out of my head.

Only, I don't think he's in my head. I think he has spread to a lower area which aches right now. "Enjoy getting involved, Sherlock", that's what Mycroft told me during our "delightful" telephone chat when I was at the wedding reception. I knew what he meant - it hurt.

OK, enough, got a big case to solve and I can't dwell on these things. This is a rubber fish. Nice move Mrs. Hudson. Anyway, good night notebook, Molly is waiting for me at the hospital.

I think I'll call you John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Steelwater for the beta <3


	3. A ruined Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again Steelwater for the time you've given to edit this fic. Me loves you!
> 
> Please excuse my English, it's not my mother tongue.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

OK, so we're not calling you John, or anything for that matter. You are simply what you are, a bunch of trees stapled together so that lunatics like me could write their thoughts. You can take the credit for keeping me away from my drug habit, I turned you into my new medication. Don't tell anyone I'm nice to you. Lucky you're less communicative even than myself.

I just got back from the morgue. Molly wasn't feeling very well. She didn't wear the same clothes she wore when I first saw her today, and her hair was done differently. I couldn't sense Tom's scent on her so she didn't meet him. Molly made quite an effort not to smell of anyone today, plus, she had the same frowning face I saw on Gon at the crime scene. She was trying to hide something, obviously, and like any other day of the week – I was on to it.

Hannibal's body was still cold when it was brought to the mortuary, very affirming of what I discovered on the crime scene. Molly asked me where I was, and found it strange that I stopped to eat on my way to see her. "You never eat while on a case, Sherlock", she paused for a second, considering what to say next, "Is everything alright?" Right question, Molly Hooper, wrong person to ask it though. I had an excuse that I needed some fuel for the long night we were about to embark upon, but Molly didn't buy it. That's the thing about Molly, no matter how perplexed or weak she may seem, within her hides a great tiger – wise and strong. But she doesn't let it show, she keeps her disguise and she hides it well. Not from me, of course, and, well, I can't hide from her anymore as well. We shake the questions with reciprocal smiles and move on.

So, the body. Molly filled me in with the details: Hannibal Haugaard, Danish heritage, moved with his family to London in 1989 and stayed there until his death in 2009. He was a corrupt man, working in stock exchange during the morning and messing with politicians, selling them stocks on the side, promising more fame and fortune during the night. His case was familiar to the Scotland Yard as he was reported to be missing.

An autopsy showed that he was poisoned, but there was no information about who had done it. I asked Molly for the clothes he wore when he was found today. The lower edges of his pants and his shoes were moist, so the body was initially put in someone else's room and then dragged outside. This just got very interesting. Haugaard lay dead on the steps of an office building in the middle of a crowded street. How could someone take this body without anyone saying anything or calling the police? Someone trained in this kind of work was responsible for this.

Lestrade walked into the room, didn't see any reason to waste time on the formalities of "hello" or "so, Molly, how are you doing?" and I cut straight to the chase.

"Hannibal Haugaard, poisoned in 2009 and somehow kept frozen until today, was put in someone's office, someone called CAM, and was dragged by him or his employees down to the street, where you found him. The man responsible for the death of Haugaard is probably someone who had to deal with him."

"So who's CAM?" Molly asked.

"Charles Augustus Mangussen, and I see it as no coincidence that one Lady Smallwood approached me recently about this terrible man. This will require my full attention. I may be in need of my blogger. Have you got a chance to talk to him? Oh, never mind, I will speak to him myself."

I took all the files I needed for thiscase and almost left the room without a punch line. I turned around to the two most perplexed people I've ever seen and said "Try to hold yourselves from doing it here, probably better to go to your place, Gin."

I heard Molly's voice behind me saying "It's Greg, Sherlock. Wait, what did you say?"

I did enjoy that - leaving them wondering. We've known each other for so long and they still think that they can keep things from me. Anyway, I went to John and Mary's place to tell them the good news, and maybe recruit John for the case. This was a great mystery to be solved, especially after all the data Lady Smallwood gave me about Mr. Mangussen. Of course, I knew him beforehand, shouldn't tell Mycroft about that yet. This should be handled in the sneakiest way, that's the only way to deal with a snake like Mangussen. He had all the power in the world, he was invincible, and unlike any other villain I have known throughout my life, with the exception of Moriarty, he was able to be invisible as well. I should calculate each and every step I'm going to make from now on.

I didn't want to handle it on my own, I knew John could be very helpful, a good fellow to share the complexities of this issue with.

I took a cab to their place, but no one was there. I lacked all patience to wait for them to arrive, so I texted John. 

At your place, some great news for us. Come at once. SH.

One minute passed, two, two and half, three, five, I watched the screen and nothing came up. Not that he had replied quickly since he was with Mary, but this time I expected him to nonetheless. Let's face it, I wanted him to be there the second I clicked "send". That was always the case with us. It bothered me. Really bothered me. Why did he make this circular move on my palm? What did it mean? John should have known better not to do those kinds of… things, to torture me with human affection. Was it affection? What did I want it to be?

So there I was, at the Watsons' doorstep, constantly looking at my phone. There was still no comment from the peanut gallery, and no way of knowing why. Last time I heard from John was when he sent me the text about the baby. This domestication thing didn't suit him, but he forcefully knitted himself into the role of a husband and a soon-to-be father. Though he did help me in several occasions when I needed him, he preferred to spend his time with Mary at the clinic, or with Mary at home. Moriarty was right, he's such a dog, so loyal to its owners. 

I took the glove off of my right hand and felt the doorknob. It was still quite warm. They did return to the house, and then went out again. The window beside the doorway was only half shut. They allowed themselves to be careless which implies that they intend to come back very soon. John would never leave anything open when leaving our apartment on Baker Street. I sometimes left a window open just to see him later almost exploding, and giving me a lecture about home safety. I didn't see the point since a burglar will always find a way to get in, and even if he or she took something, I got all I need in my mind.

Doorknob a bit warm, window half open, but no sign of either of the happy couple. 15 minutes have passed and nothing. Had a burglar entered the house through the window, I would have been able to hear footsteps. Behind the house was only a brick wall, which wouldn't help the burglar to escape. He would have to get out from the front of the house. But there were no footsteps and no real evidence of breaking in. They had to come back. They had to. A form of anxiety crept over me, and I became worried. It's been too long. 

Just as I was starting to sweat again as I did on the day of the wedding - right hand, so deceiving - the wholesome couple appeared from across the street. John carried many bags, probably didn't want any burdens on his pregnant wife. Something in their appearance startled me and the next thing I knew, I was hiding behind a bush, right beside their stairway. Oh, they both were smiling, I've never seen John with a smile so wide. Well, except when he expressed his awe of my deductions or that time when we made a prank call to Lestrade and he couldn't resist but show his amusement with the situation.

"That was absolutely tiring," John said, "this is the last time I'm taking you with me to the shop, Mrs. Watson".

Mary giggled. "Soon you'll have to adjust yourself to my cravings, Mr. Watson. Lots of chocolate cookies, ice cream, then pickles and fresh squeezed orange juice for desert. Oh, I could really use some avocados right now," she stopped to look at the bags, "did we get any?"

The confidence in Mary's voice alarmed me. Maybe it was because I was hiding behind a bush like an animal, but I sensed something odd in the way she had spoken. She was reminded of something before making that avocado remark, she knew she'd need it eventually, the whole craving ordeal was already known to her. She was pregnant once, she knew she'll eventually feel the hormonal urge to spend some time with avocados.

This slight venture to my mind palace interrupted me from listening to their conversation and when I landed back in reality all I could see was both of them passionately kissing. The two were so entwined. It looked like they formed one body. Mary's long red coat and John's blue one colored the damp street with purple. Mary's hands around John's neck, his hands around her lower back, they practically squeezed each other. For a moment John let his head back and looked at her. Their noses were red, probably from the cold and the sentiments they both shared with a spoonful of drool. "I'm a very lucky man" he whispered, though I could hear it. Mary chuckled as she put her head in the crook of his neck. His hands wrapped themselves around her waist even tighter, and I felt a need for air again. With every motion of his hands, my chest became strangled by an invisible force. I had to stay calm, had to keep quiet. My breath became heavy. I had to grab something, had to get a sense of the ground under my legs and I stroked the grass beneath me. Another brush over my palm. It didn't help at all. A monster took over me, a green one, took a hold of my whole body and I almost burst into flames. 

That was so out of character. That I, Sherlock Holmes, should be jealous?

"Enjoy getting involved", Mycroft said to me on that dreadful day. I didn't enjoy it at all anymore, not like this, with me behind a bush, hiding from my best friend.

They were so busy looking at each other while they walked up the stairs to the doorway, that they didn't even notice me climbing up their green grass. I crawled for a bit, when from the half open window a light shone. Wouldn't that be a sight for Lestrade and his colleagues? I got up, fixed my coat, then my hair, and went back to Baker Street.

This was not a good time to tackle John with my doings, he has his own life to take care of, and I think a distance from him would do good for the both of us. Maybe that's why when I walked down the street where John lives now, I took one small glimpse of it and said "goodbye" to the cool air. Sometimes you can be so dramatic, Sherlock.

Time to move on, and you dear notebook, are my new soldier. Need to talk to Mrs. Hudson, it should be appropriate for me to get rid of all things related to my previous soldier – couch, toothbrush, jumpers that he surprisingly forgot at my place, and his birth certificate. 

Finally, a message from John, "I just saw your text, bet you didn't wait more than a minute until you gave up, but I've been quite busy. Talk to you tomorrow. JW"

Notebook, I need some, get me some.


	4. Paradise Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "episode" is set after "His Last Vow", there's a little summary of the episode if you happened to miss anything (like Sherlockians can forget anything...)
> 
> I hope I wasn't too harsh on the characters, but believe me, it will be worth the while :)
> 
> Thanks again to Steelwater for her beta-ed, you're the Sherl to my Wats

Quick update since I just got an urgent call, very urgent.

I knew John was going to miss it, the thrill of the chase, the tyre lever in his trousers, the danger crawling down his feet. Little did he know, my latest involvement with Mangussen was going to produce so much trouble for him. My suspicions about Mary, though I never bothered to figure them out since I thought it would hurt John, were proven right. Obviously. 

She is an assassin, was an assassin, freelance, a Robin Hood trained to steal life from those who killed others. She shot me, shot a coin, I shot Mangussen, then Moriarty came back. John's heart got broken throughout the whole ordeal. I couldn't take the chance of any rise of sentiment in me, I had to keep him away from me, so I advised him to get back to Mary and work on their relationship. I gave him a line that was surely going to soften his wife's heart: "the problem of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege". Life with Mary would offer him the safe haven he has been craving, she won't run off to Eastern Europe to take care of her brother's affairs, and she'll be a better companion.

Later, John told me that he used that line, and it brought her to tears. I should write poems some day, maybe when I'm older and won't have the physical means to get out and shoot criminals, it will probably get people talking, like John always says. 

There was something quite liberating in taking care of Mangussen. It was a fearful feeling, though, and I do not plan on doing it again. It seems to me more efficient and entertaining to kill people using much more creative methods.

There was no sign of Moriarty since the "did you miss me?" media takeover, but nothing was quiet. There was someone out there killing people affiliated with Magnussen's work. More dead men and women were found in different locations in London, people who once cooperated with the Danish Devil and were treated with the same poison as Haugaard. Though there was a clear link between the victims, still there was not even a tiny bit of thread to connect me to the killer.

I knew it would upset John, though. I came to see Mary at their house. It was a few days ago, Mary was due any day now, but I had to get some answers from her. John promised her he would put her past behind them. I made no such promise. I checked John's calendar, he had an appointment with a diet consultant. Mary was supposed to stay at home since her doctor prescribed her with bed rest. 

We sat together for tea, skipped the polite part of conversation people seem to regard as important, and I asked her about her relationship with Mangussen. She swore to me she had nothing to do with him until after he started to threaten her. She wasn't assigned by anyone to give an end to him, "and Sherlock, if I had any information that would help you and John solve these dreadful murders, I would give you all of it, but really, I know no more than you do." She smiled at me after saying that.

We said our goodbyes, agreed that John shouldn't know that this conversation ever occurred, and made a little bet about whom is going to break first and eventually tell him. She gave me a hug, and I couldn't but feel her belly. There was life inside her, it was moving really fast, too fast for my taste, swirling all around her skin so I could feel the making of a successor for the Watson dynasty.

This was the last time I saw Mary Watson. Well, last time I saw her alive and breathing. This is why I'm writing to you so vividly, notebook. I'm in a cab, on my way to the hospital. Mrs. Hudson, who was already there, said that the doctors were very clear about it being the result of poisoning. John was there, holding his late wife's hand, refusing to let go or speak to anyone else.

As I got there Mrs. Hudson rushed towards me, crying and mumbling. I caught her in my arms and asked her to speak more clearly. "The baby," she said, "they both didn't survive". I let go of her, when suddenly a white cloud took over the whole room. I saw nothing, I thought nothing, and I did not sense any other person in the building with the exception of John Watson.

"Where's John?" I asked while walking through this white chamber and Mrs. Hudson's voice guided me to Mary's room. I couldn't see anything except the color white, but with every step I took the world got darker and darker, the colour gray formed itself in front of me with only one definite figure gracing my eyes with a glowing white halo. John sat on a sofa but did not move. His eyes were fixed on a point on the wall, oblivious to everything surrounding him. I wondered if he saw the same gray as I did, and if he saw me there, in the realm of weariness. I realized he did when he turned his head to me, tears filling his eyes. He tried to say something. His Adam's apple was shaking. His voice was the first to break, then his body gravitated towards the floor. I ran to pick him up, kneeling in front of him as he let his body fall into my arms. His head was shaking where it lay upon my shoulder, and I held it firmly with my hand. His arms loosened, but he was still breathing, very loud and angry breaths. His voice broke again, but this time he was able to speak. Between every grunt I heard him whisper my name and finally the tears came streaming down my coat. He repeated the name three times, each "Sherlock" felt different, each one sank deeper into my chest, to my center. That was it, John Watson, the heart to my mind was fully broken and all I could think of was keep holding him.

The room revealed itself to me, the wall was painted blue, the sofa was pale brown, and John was all water. Before losing his consciousness he asked me not to leave him. All I could do was to say "I promise".

Mrs. Hudson came into the room with a doctor, who eventually got John admitted and put in a different room. I was left alone with Mary's body, still fresh. Two hearts stopped beating at one instant. If it wasn't the body of someone I liked, who was married to the person who I cherished most in life, I would've taken out my instruments and examined it. But I knew it was not the appropriate time. I closed her eyes and kissed her chilly hand goodbye. It was now time for me to prevent this day from destroying three hearts.

I'm writing in you now from the hallway. They won't let me into John's room, but from this point of the corridor I can enjoy a glimpse of his peacefulness. His heavy body caressed by the white sheets of medicine. He's breathing on his own, fighting like the eternal soldier that he is and I'm right there, close to him, not as a commander, but as a companion. It is important to me that when he wakes up he will see me and know that he is not alone. That he's ever going to be alone as long as both of us are on this earth.

A nurse just approached me with a smile and told me that I can see John, and you know what the first thing I'm going to do? Open the palm of his hand and touch it with my finger, so he would feel the affection that revived me on that summer's day when he exchanged vows with his wife and his best man.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Please don't be upset with me for taking this notebook from your hand and writing to you. But you were sound asleep, and it's beautiful to see your hand grasping John's, both of your chests moving at the same pace. I just wanted to say that I'm so sorry for what has happened and I will be here first thing in the morning. They're taking Mary to St. Barts, I'll keep her in check. The Yard found another victim of the same poison today, but I didn't call because I knew you wouldn't answer. Greg and I were about to make it official today that we're together, but I guess this is not the time for that. Oh Gosh, I can't believe I just wrote in your journal. I didn't read anything, I promise_

_Send my love to John, and I'm here Sherlock, whenever you need me._

_Molly._

_P.S. Mrs. Hudson asked me to write that she fixed John's bed in Baker Street and that she's going to bring you fresh clothes tomorrow morning._


	5. Letters to a room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay,   
> Here's a little summary of what's happened so far: there's a series of murders, all of which are connected to Charles Augustus Mangussen. The last victim was Mary and her child (I'm not that brutal in real life, I promise!), Sherlock is the knight in shining coat, and John collapses into his arms. Enjoy this one!
> 
> Thanks again to Steelwater for the time she invests in reading and correcting my English!

John,

I'll just slip this note to you through the door crack, and I won't move until you reciprocate with a sign that you read it. Remember, we're in the middle of a very important investigation, and keeping me here will cause you to deal with charges of interrupting my cooperation with the Scotland Yard, so please, if you have any of that Watson left in you – reply to this.

You wouldn't let anyone into your room, and I have to admit I found it alarming when you screamed right at me to wake me up and asked the nurses to take me. I thought you needed me to be there. You asked me not to leave you. Death makes us so strange, don't you think? Anyway, you won't be able to scream at us in the hallway so I'm just letting you know that we're taking shifts. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and myself. We're watching you, no matter how stubborn you are. You and I switched places for a while, and if I need to be the heart in our duo for a few weeks then so be it.

I heard you sprained one of the doctors' arms. Lestrade assured him that this case will be handled by the police when you will be able to attend court. After that he gave me the doctor's statement. I framed it and hanged it on your wall for laughs.

You just built yourself a fortress of solitude. I feel like I need to call you Sherlock from now on.

The manager of the hospital feels like he owes me after I helped him get away with infidelity and proved to his wife that he was really in Singapore the day she found him in their hotel bed with another woman. So you can stay here for as long as you like. Whenever you feel like going out just… whistle.

Anyway, when I'm not here with you, I'm at St. Barts or at the apartment. You should know that Mary was a fighter till the end, and she did leave us a trace, a little hint so we could catch our murderer. Moreover, she was the first who wasn't only poisoned but also strangled by the lunatic, probably because of her relation to you and me. She took one of his napkins and put it in her pocket when he wasn't noticing. It had the letters BC scribbled with a phone number on it. Lestrade made himself useful by finding whose number it was, a young journalist from some Swedish newspaper. Lestrade figured the napkin was his since his name is Bjorn Cransson, and he confirmed he got in contact with our murderer. He's never met him though, their communication was purely based on threats via telephone calls, and that mystery man already confirmed his threats by killing Bjorn's girlfriend.

The problem is Mary was the first to be connected to Mangussen from the victim side. She didn't work for him, nor did she ever intend to. Her work, well, you have to know that now, was strictly for the sake of those who maliciously lost their loved ones and wanted the pay the same respects to the killers. She has never killed anyone not guilty of any charge, and she did it in the most amazing ways. Of course, you wouldn't want to know that and I already wrote it down, so here it is. When you'll need more details about her, don't hesitate to call. I'm being too friendly here, you have to pull yourself together so I can go back to being the high-functioning sociopath I've always been.

Back to Mr. Cransson: He wasn't that redundant, since he recorded some of the conversations he had with our mysterious murderer. It took some time and money to convince him to share it with us. I have to send him an autographed picture of myself with that ridiculous hat by tomorrow. With a great amount of caution, he sent me some conversations with translations. Of course, he didn't know I had some knowledge of the Swedish tongue, although I didn't need it since I didn't really listen to what they were saying but what was said behind them.

Our killer was no nomad, every call was made at the same time every day and was made from the same place. He was British, his accent was obvious, his front teeth needed to be fixed, but that doesn't matter to us right now does it? He's of poor up-bringing and he probably called from somewhere in Central London, maybe a pub near Trafalgar Square – the sounds of pigeons, buses and some French tourists talking about how to get to the National Portrait Gallery. Lestrade and his men are on his trail right now, and all this has happened thanks to our dear Mary. Be proud, and be here already!

Although, what Lestrade and his crew probably don't know is that it's all part of our riddler's plan. He's not going to be in that pub, he laid bread crumbs for the Scotland Yard just to make them frustrated with yet another failure of capturing him. It can't be that easy, can't it? You're probably wondering if the journalist will be safe now that the murderer is on to him – he's in a safe house in Denmark with his family, a nice one on the hills. We should go there someday, very relaxing.

The second man who was killed on the same day as Mary was one of Moriarty's main men. You probably figured out that I didn't really complete my mission of destroying Moriarty's thick web, and that there are some mosquitoes biting their way through the world so they can associate with the apparently-alive consultant criminal. As always, I choose to hide this information from the officials since this needs to be handled with great care. There's been enough silence coming from Moriarty's side, I believe he'll be contacting me sometime soon to discuss further actions. This worm, whose malice goes beyond what we've known, hurt a very mad and weakened Moriarty. Something tells me this is the start of a great cooperation with "Mr. Sex". It would require me to make a deal with the devil, so to make the cost more bearable, I'm going to temporarily deal with it on my own.

Think I should stop at the shop for biscuits? I don't know if Moriarty is into food that he can't cut to make a statement.

Best regards, and please come out 

Sherlock

 

_I don't want to talk Sherlock, I don't want to hear anyone talk, sneeze, breathe, I want to be utterly alone because this is what I'm feeling right now – the deep black hole of loneliness and fear of the tragedies the world holds for me when I go out of this door. I appreciate your updates and everyone's best regards, but I truly don't feel like stepping out right now._

_P.S. Since when do you carry a notebook around with you? You're writing a journal now????_

_John._

 

I thought my hint about your room in our apartment in 221B was quite obvious. You have a bed ready for you there and all the peace and quiet you will need. Mrs. Hudson even offered some of her stash if you ever feel the need to… you know. Plus it will be of great help to me to have you around there and not in this foul place. An old man sneezed all over the back of my coat the other day and it made me feel sick to my stomach. Of course I told him about his condition in return and he wasn't so keen on standing behind me after that. Please, just come back with me to our flat and I promise I won't harass you until the time is right. Together we can build our own anti-breathing empire.

Just come out, the world hasn't shown it lately, but it requires your presence. And no, it's not a journal, it's a memoir, a temporal replacement for your presence, that came in place of the skull which I don't remember where I put. Do you know where it is?

Sherlock.

 

_Check under the left pillow. I apologize on behalf of the old man who probably lost the ability to control his NATURAL impulses and didn't spare it from your coat, which I think you should send to dry-cleaning. Just a suggestion, you'll probably just shrug your shoulders and roll your eyes when you'll read my words._

_PS, I'm going to find that journal of yours, you know, and I will read it with great pleasure, and I WILL remember each and every line, so you better find a good place to hide it._

_John._

 

I'll burn this notebook and you'll have to be the victim of my constant thoughts. Come out John, don't make me say words I don't like, don't make me swear at inanimate objects. I promise not to talk to you until you're ready. Oh, you're out. Fine then.

Sherlock.

 


	6. The return home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes back from the hospital to 221B Baker street, and Sherlock meets an old "pal".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus between chapters, my dear editor is currently busy with more important things such as life and university so let's wish her good luck and many happy returns :) Thank you Steelwater for this edit!
> 
> Please excuse any fault in my English!

Had it been three years ago, I would have probably started by telling you what happened with John, get rid of the sentimentality before getting on to writing about the real business. But I guess I have undergone some changes in my life, for better or for worse. It was bound to happen since the day Mike Stamford decided to intermingle himself with other people's businesses. But, here I am, a cup of tea in one hand and a pen in the other, after a nice chit-chat with Moriarty. He's taller than I remembered, much darker, didn't shave for quite a while, applying him with the fitting look of a hyena. I must confess I missed him a bit. His trembling voice, moronic tones of lunacy, they all faded away. He got rid of his theatricality somehow.

He wore his Westwood suit, known from our little rattle in the pool. It seemed more like the suit wore him since it didn't quite fit him anymore. He has been working out, should check if Mycroft would like some exercise tips. Buffer Moriarty meant he didn't have a lot of work lately. This mysterious murderer got to him, deep. I can't quite confide in you, dear notebook, about all the details we discussed. But what I can tell you is that Moriarty proposed faking another death, which I dismissed immediately, since I do not intend to break any more of what is left of my dear John's heart. Of course, I didn't tell him that, just gave him a good reason why not to do that. As our conversation continued, I discovered I misjudged my adversary – Moriarty wasn't himself strictly because he was wearing a mask. We're both going to put it on both of ourselves, we have to show signs of weakness. So Moriarty succeeded in fooling me for about a minute, I will be able to fool anyone for as long as I want. Mary's murder was a strike not just on her, but on me as well. Moriarty knew that and he wittingly used this fact as a way to agree with his methods.

So we decided on a strategy, figured out some moves we're about to make in the upcoming days. I had some new findings, the poison used was of Irish origin, leading me to believe that either the criminal is of Irish descent or a specialized botanic. Something tells me my primary suspicion is true. I asked Lestrade to hire Anderson for the case, and check documentations of any association Mangussen might've had during his pathetic life with high-middle-class Irish men. Anderson was very thrilled to get a job. I asked of him to stay in the archives and never leave them until he gets what he thinks is enough information for me, which is everlasting.

Moriarty didn't take even one sip of the tea, and as expected didn't even grab a little bite to eat. He was hungry, his eyes were at least, but I didn't bother to be polite. I was a bit mad at him since he interrupted me. He interrupted us. Here it is, another deep breath with nowhere to go, here's what happened before, my senses are never wrong, so don't think for a second that I'm over-dramatisizing (great, I started to invent words(.

John settled in our apartment quite fast. When we came back from the hospital all he did was take a quick shower so he could change into his home-wear and continue to wallow in his room. Did I say wallow? I meant grieve. But grieving is wallowing, what's gone is gone, I guess, and I found John to be exaggerating. I was saddened about Mary but I didn't go to my room and lock myself from society. I do it practically every day for different reasons.

We haven't talked for a couple of days, just as Mrs. Hudson and I promised him. Today there was an awkward silence coming from his room, he didn't get out to use the bathroom, nor did he growl, which means he didn't go to the kitchen and found some ears I kept in the fridge. I tried to make myself busy with the case, but an image of him lying in his bed without a breath to spare started to spread inside my brain. All the data in my head seemed to decrease itself under the power of this single picture of a dead man. Not just a dead man but John. John Watson. My friend. My best friend. My best man. Everything I typed looked like white letters on white background. The silence struck me every time I had to breathe. What's going on with that? I still have these seizures of really deep inhaling.

After I couldn't really concentrate on anything I calculated the strategies with which I can approach John's room without really interrupting his social slumber. One option was to just burst into the room by acting out an awkward fall, or asking Mrs. Hudson to do so. The other option was to set the fire alarm on and see what happens, or asking Mrs. Hudson to do so. In the end I decided it would be better to just knock, but there was no answer. I knocked three times and there was no response. My brain betrayed me, my mind palace has been breached by constant worries about what I'm about to discover behind the door. A burst of anger pushed me to kick the door, which resulted with me making a lot of noise, not enough to wake John from his deep sleep. His chest was showing signs of life, inflating every inhale to great width, the tight white shirt on his chest created two mountains, rising and falling in the tide of his sleep. He was incredibly calm, and his serenity made me feel welcomed to watch the quiet spectacle. He didn't snore, didn't move a muscle except his chest, no dreams harassed him in his slumber. My mind, which a few seconds ago was filled with all the worrisome images of blood and fury, was now blank, just the sight of my friend resting so peacefully on the white sheets. It immersed me with a great sense of calm, a power that invited me to sit on his bedside and watch him. We were blank white sheets together, with nothing in our heads.

  
An hour passed since the whole door mishap, when John woke up feverously from a dream that lasted no longer than two minutes. He tilted his head from side to side breathing heavily, and he cried out Mary's name. Four times he called her with no answer, only to wake up with his eyes wide open, grabbing my upper arm tightly (well, too tightly), and drawing me closer to him. We were sitting on his bed nose to nose, two chests bursting at each other, at the thrill of the toughest touch. We took seven breaths together, and the eighth was dedicated to his late wife - he mumbled her name again and fell with his head back onto his pillow. It took him six more breaths to let go of my arm, and brush his hair with the intention to figure out what has just happened. When he finally noticed it was me, he asked me with the weakest voice I've ever heard coming out from his throat what I was doing there. I couldn't quite explain, since I too wasn't sure what drew me to sit by his sleeping side, gazing at him like he was a window of many crimes for me to solve. I responded with the first sentence that came to my mind, which was "I heard strange noises coming from your room and you didn't answer any of my attempts to wake you up. I knocked and knocked, and I knew the next practical step would be to break the door and see what's wrong." A volcano of words just erupted out of me for no reason at all.

  
He looked at me with confusion that turned into mild amusement. The wrinkles around his eyes were starting to show as he gave me a light smile. "But Sherlock," he whispered, "I didn't lock the door, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't let me. You could have just gallantly walk in".

  
I got up from my seat and the conscious-non-conscious fit continued with me nervously gathering all the pieces of the door that were piling next to his closet and throwing it out to the corridor. "Sh-Sherlock" his voice called to me, "calm down, everything is fine, it's not the first time you saw me waking up from a nightmare."

  
No, it wasn't, but it was the first time he woke up holding me so close to him and increasing my heart rate to an unfamiliar level. The only consulting detective in the world wouldn't have responded like that to anything, wouldn't waste his time watching his friend doing nothing. At that instant I reminded myself of that touch to my palm, the circular soft brush of his pinky. A little pinky was taking over my brain, and the only way to set it free was to finally confront him. I made my seat again on the side of his bed and asked him to discuss a serious matter. He got up to sit in front of me.

  
"John, I know it's not the best time to mention this, but it would mean a great deal to me if you could just explain to me…" I halted. Then a sigh. Then Molly came behind me and yelled at me to get it out already. What are you doing in my mind palace Molly? GET OUT!

  
"Get out? What's going on? Explain to you what?"

  
"At the alter," I paused, "during your wedding," another pause, enough to make John let out the loudest sigh in the whole of England. "You were touching me."

  
"I was touching you?"

  
"Yeah, your little finger, it was brushing my palm when you and Mary were exchanging your vows."

  
He became upset, his voice not weak anymore, "Do you really think I want to go back there Sherlock? Do you really think this is the time?"

"Please, John" I kept my tone quiet and calm, the way I knew would settle John and mend his anger. "Just try to focus on that moment, I need to know…"

  
"Sherlock."

  
"I need to know why you did it, why you made that circular motion on my palm. You've never tried to touch me that way before, like you were hiding it from all the others."

  
He averted his gaze from me, and looked straight ahead at his closet. "Uh.. let's see" he said, while stroking his thighs nervously. "That day is really all a blur to me, nothing I can remember except Mary, that dress, and you being all drama queen."

  
I probably stared at him for a few long seconds, because he made the same gesture again on his thighs. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I don't remember a thing, nothing out of the ordinary like trying to touch you while getting married to the woman I love…..d"

  
"So you're saying it was a conscious-non-conscious thing?"

  
"Yeah, something like that, but why would I do that?"

  
That was exactly my question, and, for my disappointment, I figured out the answer. Why disappointment? I do not know. He grabbed my hand, looked at it and said he was sorry again. Some force came over me and I pulled the hand to draw John closer to me, to feel his chest against mine once more. We shared three long takes of air, and then Moriarty decided to show up. His loud footsteps on the stairs separated us abruptly, and I left the room without making eye contact.

  
Maybe I should get a couple of biscuits to my room, where John will now stay until Mrs. Hudson will get someone to fix the door. Again these appetite-related diversions, no food is necessary now. I'm going to take John's (it is closer to me) and see if I can find more about this serial killer. I need a cigarette, did John really forget? There was only truth in his eyes, but how can he not mention the kind words I shared with all those ridiculous people at the wedding? And what about that time when he got up and hugged me, when he tried to keep me on track when I was losing my concentration? So many question marks that somehow are too vague for me to handle right now.

  
Oh, and I checked, the skull was indeed hidden behind my pillows. I probably didn’t notice it since the left side of the bed was always the closest and who has the time or power to roll over to the right side when all you have to do is lie down. Oh, can you hear that? John just got to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

 

 


	7. History repeats itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock recollects a scene from his childhood, and comes to the conclusion there's a missing piece in the investigation he hasn't thought of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English is beautiful, but mine is far from perfect so please be gentle with it.  
> Thank you Steelwater for the beta :)  
> Enjoy!

Oh, Johnal Journal. After all these months you gathered more dust than any of the ancient books on my shelves. You seemed so lonely lying there in between my collection of Charles Darwin manuscripts. My mother used to say that evolution is the greatest truth in science, since it's a process every man and woman goes through in their lives. "Everything changes," she would say, "but moreover, everything evolves."

Many years ago, during one afternoon, I checked that Mycroft was in the library and I came back home. I needed to ask my mother a private question, which if got to my brother's ears, would completely wreck my pirate reputation in the household. My mom was in the kitchen, drinking her afternoon tea with yet another scholar pamphlet about math. Redbeard was lying beneath her chair, and didn't move, not even when I entered. My mother always formed the greatest shelter for small beings. She kept her goggle eyes inside the words of the academy and asked me why I arrived home so soon.

I didn't have any exposition ready, nor did I know how to articulate one, so I just spat it out and asked: "if evolution teaches us about progress, why are we staying at the same place all the time?"

A fragment of this memory was erased by some vicious brain cell and all I can remember is my mother hugging me, whispering "you will find a place of your own, somewhere you'll find fitting for your incredible thoughts to prosper and grow."

"But why would I want to move out of this place?"

My mother's reply became so vivid to me, I could see her holding my shoulders and caressing me again. "You, my dear Sherlock, you'll be the one to fall in love, that's what's going to raise you!"

As a boy all I knew I could do was scream at her "EW! Mother!" and run to my room. Today I believe in motherly intuition. Today is the day when Sherlock Holmes, yours truly, confesses that he is in dire need of affection. That afternoon my mother saw in me what I repressed for so many years.

John's recovery was slow. It took him a couple of days before he could go back to wear his jumpers and stroll along the streets of London with me. We solved a couple of cases together, mostly revolving around lost husbands or wives. There was one I was really keen about: I deduced a man's wife whereabouts just by listening to his steps walking up the stairs to our living room. It was so obvious, and to see John's look of adoration was a treat for my eyes. There was one unspoken rule between us – no talking about that woman whose name shouldn't be spoken out loud, and I kept my mouth shut about the mystery of the alter.

Our days were consumed by the search after our serial killer, and we helped Anderson with the archives. We found three men who were suspicious enough, but all of them were listed as dead. The fourth suspect we found was named Arthur Gray. He was a professor at Dublin University, had a major in science but decided to pursue the academic life in the Humanities hemisphere. He wrote his dissertation about the evolution of freedom in white American literature. Nothing was interesting enough, lots of names like Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsburg, Michael Cunningham and Paul Auster, who didn't really interest me.

Nothing in Gray's record showed anything peculiar, his only attachment to Magnussen was one-timed, he met him in Magnussen's offices in Denmark. There are no records of it, just his name listed in the shark's journal. His records showed the least suspicious data, which made me suspect him even more. The day he handed his dissertation was the same day the police reports showed that he was missing. Since he had no wife or children, no one really kept in touch with him, so the police left his case open until there will be further information about it. Same story as Hannibal's but with a much positive personality. This is a three-patch problem, and the couch is calling me to slip back into my mind palace. Goodbye.

***

Johnal Journal, my diary, I went back in time and calculated the days thoroughly. I haven't really delved on the meeting I had with Moriarty. He seemed taller than I remembered, broad shoulders that I couldn't expect from such a small man. He was weak, broken, not a proper way for a consulting criminal to show himself to people, let alone his ultimate nemesis (me). Yes, he was wearing a mask, but why should he?

I borrowed some documents from the police and kept them inside my bedside cabinet, but nothing really helped me think. I decided to focus and what didn't happen in the past few months. There was one man who bluntly disappeared from my life, who I hadn't bothered to check on – his name was Billy Wiggins. Nothing but intuition drove me to try and trace him and his actions after I was "arrested" for the murder of Magnussen.

I ventured back to my parents' house, to the Christmas day when I drugged everyone. Billy Wiggins, he was the one who made the drinks. He knew the right amount of chemicals to drop in each drink. He was curious all the time, asking me questions about crime and deductions. He was smarter than what I expected anyone from my homeless network to be. Billy Wiggins was there when I disguised myself as a drug addict. Oh shut up John, it was a game. He wasn't just there, he was everywhere. I was too blind to see that, too much in need of an associate that I didn't recognize the pattern. I had a spy in my household all this time.

Not only this, but when Mary was putting a bandage around Billy's hand after John sprained it, she seemed to know exactly when it would hurt him the most. I remember that wrinkle now, on the right edge of her mouth. She gave him a little smile. They were both enjoying that moment. They were both anticipating it. Wiggins knew too much about John's routines, and I was higher than I was supposed to be at that moment, rarely aware of what's happening right beneath my nose. Oh Mary, you weren't so innocent after all.  

I knew what was going to be my next step, question was, after all these months, will it be necessary to call John for aid?

 


	8. Many Happy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally finds out who was behind the murders, how did everything become so personal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Steelwater for curing my poor English
> 
> Sorry for the late update, enjoy your reading!  
> 

There was only one place in which I could find Arthur Gray, one that I haven't thought only for a second to check. I sent John a text of the address and asked him to come as soon as he could (I came to the conclusion that there was no other way to tell about it to him). In addition to the address, I texted that "a tier lever would not suffice in this case". I was so anxious that I didn't have the patience to wait for a cab. I just ran across the streets of London, not giving myself one chance to think about fatigue or exhaustion. There was no time to waste. I had to get there before John.

Sentiments, too much distraction. Instead of being the only consulting detective in the world, I came to be the greatest denier. The murder rollercoaster was damaged by a doctor's heart, and I became oblivious to everything around me. It's a weakness I have to get rid of. I have to. How come I haven't checked out John's old apartment? How come he has never visited there? Mrs. Hudson made sure that all his belongings would move back to our flat, but we've never thought about selling the place. How come? Stupid Sherlock, everything was right in front of your eyes and you just couldn't help yourself but fall in love. FALL IN LOVE? NO! Two slaps? Four? Ten? CALM YOURSELF DOWN MR. HOLMES!

Back to the more important story: when I got to the house I went up the stairs and in one small second wished that I was wrong. To my surprise, the front door wasn't locked, so I quietly opened it. The red tapestry was tainted with black marks, the window which once let the light enter was half shut. It was gloomy, as it should have been. There were clothes lying on the sofa, covering more clothes. Dresses, gowns, a shower coat, not at all what I imagined I would find in the place that once was owned by a fine couple such as John and Mary Watson. Slowly I made my steps onto the bedroom where I found a whip and a wig. As I went into the room, the door was slammed behind me, and a voice of a woman whispered "How naughty of you Mr. Holmes." Of course, it wasn't just a woman, it was THE woman. When I turned around I found Irene Adler in her full glory, naked as the day I first saw her. But this time I wasn't intimidated by her. She let out a little laugh and said, "Look at you, all grown up," as she took a few steps towards me, "You've insured these cheekbones with steel, now it's going to be even HARDER to touch them". She lifted her hand to stroke my cheek but I stopped her.

"Where is Arthur Gray? You're going to tell me now or I'm going to make you sorry you ever came back to London." (I was threatening, I used my dragon tone).

She gave another little laugh, "Yes, my dear Sherlock, you have grown up." She loosened my grip on her wrist and took a little stroll around the room. Each step was slower than its predecessor. "You probably know by now that there is no Arthur Gray. There was, of course, he was just dead and someone else took his place, with a little twist."

"I don't have time for another riddle, and as YOU probably know, I already know who Gray is. I'm just waiting for HIM to step out from wherever he is in this house and let it be over,he's had enough fun."

"Are you gay yet, Sherlock?"

"Excuse me?"

"This reminds me of a conversation I shared in the past with your friend, and I wondered if you took it to the next level."

"If you're talking about John, then nothing…"

"The great Sherlock Holmes, deduces everything he can about the outside when he doesn't have a clue on what's going on inside of him." Irene moved closer to me again and grabbed my hand. "Doesn't this  do anything for you?" (No.)

"Miss Adler," I said with a shivering voice, "You're unconvincingly changing the subject, and..."

"There is a point to all of this Sherlock, I'm just trying to finally get out of the… well, closet."

"Don't…"

"What I'm trying to say is, that while we shared a sort of affection towards each other, and I was and am still very fond of you, you never considered, not even once, to try and use this affection to your benefit. You were never sexual towards anyone, and when you did have the chance to misbehave, you just turned away in an attempt to find a good place to hide from it. That's the big difference between us. I'm not hiding my true self." She paused and gave me what was supposed to be a seductive smile, "I'm in love, Sherlock, that's why I needed to make this introduction before I reveal my lover."

"Arthur Gray."

The bedroom door opened behind me, and when I turned around I saw who I most dreaded to see. Arthur Gray, the longer version of what I thought were the initials AGRA, was standing in front of me. She wore only a bathrobe.. "Mary," I whispered into the air.

The front door opened and was slammed violently. I don't really need to tell you what happened next. There was shouting, John screaming questions like: "Is it some sort of a trend, huh? Faking deaths to finish jobs?"

To make a long story short, Mary got an offer she couldn't refuse from our dear Moriarty. That's why he postponed his public appearance since the "Did you miss me?" bit. He had someone else doing his dirty work, like any old Moriarty scheme. He promised her he would erase all of her records if she could just make a few calls and falls. He first called her before the wedding, making her swear she wouldn't tell anyone about his plans in return. He had her on a leash right under my nose. She didn't find a way to defend herself. She confessed she betrayed both of our trusts, but the past has been haunting her and though John finally knew about some of it, she knew someone else would find out and find ways to manipulate her with it. This was all one tangled web of an excuse, the only way she could get away from people manipulating her was with one last manipulation made by the best criminal the world has ever encountered. So after we found out about her, it got even more tangled, and blah blah blah.

I couldn't hear her stories anymore, and John didn't find it one bit amusing that his deceased wife had an affair with another woman. Never had he refused to hear about a Lesbian love affair up until that moment. It was all too dazzling for my taste, and I bet John felt the same.

Lestrade and his donuts buddies arrested the happy couple. Irene found it amusing, Mary didn't show any sign of emotion. This is not the end of the story. Moriarty is still out there, sending his people to murder high-society criminals associated with Magnussen. Before getting in the police car Irene turned to me and said, "It was all for fun, Sherlock, another chance to see you dance. Along with your partner." She didn't leave without a smirk, I hated it. I hated everything around me, most of all the shattered John sitting on the sidewalk, trying to recuperate from all he has discovered until now.

It wouldn't be long until both Mary and Irene will come back to our lives, and finally I will have to face Moriarty and his hired assassins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit that I wasn't very proud of this chapter since Watson has suffered enough people dying and then returning from the dead, but I had to do this in order for the next chapters to work. 
> 
> I promise more Johnlock action in the next chapters!
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	9. A change in character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's journey towards confession to John about "whatever" that dwells in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Steelwater for the beta and curing my English from the dreadery of my mistakes
> 
> The summary pretty much says it all, enjoy!

We took a cab back to 221B. The atmosphere in the backseat was immersed with tension. John kept his gaze to the window beside me, shushing me every time I dared to open my mouth. "Sod it, Sherlock, there's nothing I want to hear. I'm tired." The air in his lungs was poisoned by the smoke of Mary Morstan/Arthur Gray. He coughed like there was nothing but cancer inside of him. His right hand pinched his chin and his left hand rested wide open on the cab seat. I stared at it for quite a while, seconds felt like minutes, and I finally resolved to take action. Resting my gaze on the window on my side, I let my right hand gently tap its way to his. After my hand touched a finger I stopped and checked to see if he noticed anything. He didn't move, still pinching his then very pink chin. Slowly, I let one finger drop to his palm and drew gentle circles on it.

The touch calmed John's chest. He opened the window and breathed the fresh air. When I said his name he finally looked at me and gave a little smile, and then broke into tears. "This isn't the life for me. It just can't be". My strokes became a full grab of his hand, and I held it as tight as I could, trying to let him know that he could have a life spent with me, but I kept my silence and held his hand until we got to our apartment.

When we entered the living room Mrs. Hudson has already made the tea I asked her to make in a text message. She left another note re-stating that she wasn't the housekeeper. This time I was more careful. While John took off his shoes and threw himself on the couch, I was searching for signs of drugs inside the kettle. There wasn't any strange substance, nothing in the kettle or on the other dishes. When I found out she didn't serve us with sugar but with salt, I celebrated my successful suspicion with a smile. John wasn't there with me. He sat on the couch with tired eyes, fixed on a point in the window behind me. I said his name and he woke and got up from his chair angrily. "I need something stronger than tea."

He went to the right cabinet, took out the ingredients I knew were there, except one I didn't know he kept. A bottle of Whiskey. The one we drank a few cups from on the stag night. He took two cups out of the cupboard and without asking me he poured a drink for me as well.

We sat in silence, taking quiet sips from our drinks. John's gaze was set behind me, mine was set on him. I needed to do something, I was the one who needed to fix John this time. I was the one appointed with the position of physician now. I pulled my chair closer to John's and the noise startled him. I leaned over to get closer to him, and tried to make the most understanding look I could. "It's going to be alri…"

"Don't you say that to me," John interrupted. He put his glass on the table beside him and leaned towards me. "Don't you dare say anything you don't believe in. Don't lie. I'm tired of lies, deceit, anything you sociopaths keep inside your heads. There's really nothing you could say to make this situation any better. So just stop."

"You're right, there's nothing I can say." I took a deep breath before I reached with my hand to his and opened his closed fist. "But there's got to be something I can do."

"What are you doing?" he asked me quietly.

"I'm trying to understand what burns inside me right now."

He tilted his head a bit, leaned even closer and asked confusedly, "You're burning, Sherlock?"

I didn't dare to look into his eyes. I looked instead at my hand, which was now stroking his. "Don't you remember, John? That touch? That swirling movement?"

"I remember it from the cab," he chuckled, "and thank you for that, but what's the deal with the hand? Is it about what you asked me back then after you stormed into my room?" His question flew straight to my ear, his lips were almost touching my nose. This was the closest I've ever been to him, and an internal alarm turned on and made me pull back and leave his hand alone.

His voice turned from timid to angry, "What's going on? What is all this talk about  burning?" he sighed for a moment and waited until our eyes met. "Tell me what's going on in your mind right now, imagine this is a murder case, the body is yourself, now – what do you deduce about it?" He said in a lower voice.

I put my glass on the table beside my couch and leaned on my knees, closed my eyes, and there it was – my mind palace. Everything was a blur inside, couldn't fix my eyes on one problem as many images from my past splashed right in front of me. There was Redbeard again in our back garden, trying to catch my Frisbee, Jacks Barnaby, the school bully, calling me a smart-arse in the school yard, and finally Mycroft hitting me with his scepter telling me to kneel before him. I started to drown in Mycroft's voice telling me again how much of a failure I am to the Holmes family. Just as I started to choke a voice came into the ocean of misery, John's voice pulled me out of the water and asked me again to concentrate. So I did, and before I knew it, I spat out all I could deduce from my heart.

"John, that dreadful day, your wedding day, it was all about you. I felt most comfortable when I talked about your virtues. You have so much of them; you're so fragile and emotional, but also courageous and strong. You've always been by my side, never letting go even when my arsehole-self demanded to be left alone. All the time we spent up until that moment you shared with me in the alter, I thought we were brothers. Two soldiers fighting to make the world a smarter place. But we're not brothers John, Irene was right, there is something missing between us that brothers cannot share. MYCROFT GET OUT OF THIS! AND TAKE YOUR UMBRELLA WITH YOU! Back to my mind. No, it's not my mind, you're right, it's my heart. My heart John, it's completely yours, you've taken over it, and I fear no man or woman would ever mend the pain of losing you. I'm… scared… I'm… in…."

I heard John's voice shouting "Shut up, Sherlock." When I opened my eyes I found him leaning on his knees, just like me, only his head was buried in his hands. "You're." chuckle. "What you're saying is…" chuckle. Hands down on his knees, straight stare right in my eyes. "You're telling me" chuckle, low and angry voice, "you… want to be…"

"More than friends. More than brothers. More than…"

"Lovers."

"Yes." I tried to answer as coldly as I could, "That's correct."


	10. New fields discovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally find the right excuse to take a break from detective work and Mary's betrayal - the comfort of each other's touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Steelwater again, you're the 221 to my B-class English!
> 
> More Johnlock action in here! YAY! Enjoy :)

John twisted around in his chair, bending his arms and legs, revealing his discomfort about what my confession. Obviously, he didn't expect anything like that to come out of my mouth. I didn't leave any bread crumbs behind me to let him know about my feelings. Could you believe it, notebook, I used the F word.

My blogger made three failed attempts at speaking. Every time he opened his mouth, a slight noise came out, but nothing really understandable to human beings. He stretched his arms on the chair each time, every fist led my throat to choke a bit more, every length they got pressed my heart and immersed me with the feeling of utter terror. Scared of losing all respect and honor, I opened my mouth but John shut me up with one finger tossed to the air. "No," he said angrily, "let's see what we're going to do now." Oh, that chuckle again. "You're saying that you're… no, you know what? I'm not going to say anything. I'm just going to do something that you'd find… unusual… just stop me when it's enough."

From that moment on, our words were reduced to very deep breaths. My mind palace disappeared completely and I was left to face the reality in front of me. I've never acted upon my affections or attractions. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. John knew that and he needed to take command over the situation. The chilly breeze of the cold afternoon crept through the window. All was quiet. A fear took over me. I couldn't concentrate on John, he changed his color in front of me, it was the end of the John I thought I knew and the start of one that I was longing to get acquainted with. Acquainted is not the right word, I yearned for a closer look at John, the closest one I could get – no longer the outside, but the inside of a man who was my whole world. The apartment took a narrow shape when John got up from his chair and gestured for me to come along with him.

As curious as I was at that minute, the fear of my inexperience paralyzed me to the chair. Ashamed, and my penis erect, I buried my head between my hands. The silence became me and I couldn't move. John sighed while going back to his chair. We sat for a couple of minutes, everything sound and still, waiting for an invisible barrier between us to fade away completely. I lifted my head, and found John entertained by the whole situation. He laid back, his legs open and between them was a space that could contain me, but I couldn't take the next step. His mild laughter stopped with a little bite of his lower lip, which concluded with a little lick of it. I knew that gesture, that little sign of lust he thought I've never noticed. I did. He moved to the edge of his sit, his legs in between my own. His broad fingers stroked my cheeks slowly, and his lips were finally on mine.

 _Oh, John._ First it was a slight kiss to my upper lip, next was another tap on the same spot, only wetter. I closed my eyes and reminded myself that this was no Janine, and no games were intended, I wanted this. The third kiss was joined by John's tongue inside my mouth, and mine intertwined with it. Yes. From then on I couldn't count anymore.

Still kissing me, his hands moved to my knees, rubbing them softly back and forth, every stroke went longer, until he got to my crotch. Since I couldn't concentrate on kissing him anymore, I let go of his mouth and instead attached my forehead to his forehead. When I opened my eyes I saw that John was keeping the motion with his eyes closed. _Look at me John._ The sensation of his hand near my most intimate part was hard to bare. I let out a lsmall sigh, I couldn't hold myself anymore, and I came. Fluids ran through my underwear and went through my trousers. Women sat on my lap, sat naked on a couch in front of me, men were stripping that night when I investigated the stripper killer, no one ever turned me on. A simple touch of passion from the army doctor and I was at my prime. _John._

Noticing my immediate and abrupt reaction, John took a step backwards. "Well…" he whispered, "that wasn't what I expected, not so early at least." He chuckled and regained his voice, "have you ever…?" he tried to find the right way to convey what he intended, but didn't really succeed.

This was a new territory for me. Sex was always a distraction I wished to ignore at any price. The only research I made was purely accidental, while working on John's computer. But all he had was straight porn, which made me question his signs of affection towards me all these years. His constant courting after the wrong women, his marriage, all of his homophobic remarks about the male strippers, they all led me to think John wasn't going to woomen. For the first time in my life I was happy I was wrong.

I really wanted to confess my inexperience, but watching John struggle to find the right gestures that would make me understand what he meant was too much entertaining. I acted as if I didn't quite get him, and in the end confessed my misbehavior by a little giggle. John didn't find it very amusing. He got up from his chair and grouched at the ceiling. "You're a bloody child, Sherlock."

I elevated my tone as well, "I'm not a child, John, I'm an arsehole. An inexperienced one, I might add, in desperate need of a shower," I got up from my chair, and realized that all this time it felt like John was actually taller than me, and now, looking at him from above, I regained some of my command. I took John's cheeks with both of my hands, "desperate need of a shower, and your understanding."

He gave me the most compassionate look I have ever seen coming from him, worry filled with that ingredient I have never encountered from a man's face – love. "I understand. I really do, but in order for this to work, you're going to have to grow up a little. This is not a game Sherlock."

_Oh, but it's on, my dear John._

My hand is aching, which leads me to wish you were a typewriter.


	11. A sudden romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If it weren't for second chances we'd all be alone" -Gregory Alan Isakov.  
> After their first time was quick to end, Sherlock and John give it another go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Steelwater for the quick beta, and a valued friendship and support <3
> 
> Enjoy your reading!

So, I'm back. My tenuous is enhanced but I can't get much sleep since there is someone lying beside me – John makes little snores. It makes me wonder how did the other soldiers survive their service with him sleeping in the same room with them. But that's not why I can't fall asleep. This weird sensation, unrecognizable, flinching inside my stomach. It weakens only when I take my eyes off my John, but that is impossible. Despite the awful sound coming out of his nostrils, he seems relaxed. On his back, one hand underneath my right pillow and on it his head resting on its side. His naked body appears before me in its semi-full glory, he's covered with white sheets up to his lower abdominal. His scars are deeper than the ones I've accomplished throughout the years. Many deep scratches, the wound from the bullet he got was still healing, and some dry and purple wounds which were new. They were my creation, as we shared a night that plundered all our inexperience.

When I got to the shower after our first attempt, I was frustrated, and the cold water did not suffice to calm me down. I calculated all the possible scenarios that may occur once I got out of the bathroom:

  1.        He will wait for me on his couch, grouching and shouting at his invisible friend.
  2.        He'll welcome me into his bedroom.
  3.        He'll welcome me into my bedroom.
  4.        Mrs. Hudson will get home earlier than she intended, and there will be a John-shaped hole in the apartment's door.



None of it happened. Exiting the bathroom I noticed John circling around the apartment like a little hedgehog, scratching his hair repeatedly until finally he realized I was watching him. Surprised, he stood in front of me as stiff as a soldier, locked inside an invisible narrow cell. No matter how much control he gained over me, he lost it at that moment. Suddenly he looked so small and defenseless. I needed to take command. "I'm," I paused while trying to figure out what to say next, "going to get dressed."

"Yes!" John said, still standing hard as a rock, nodding his head. "That's a brilliant idea, you go do that, and I'll just…" _see what's new on the telly_ , "watch the telly, see if there's anything good."

But what would one wear after an incident like the one that had happened? When two masculine hands grabbed my thighs so firmly and made me come? Come, I detest this phrase. Nothing coming from down there. Erupt would be a better definition of what happened to the fluids and the volcano that has lived inside me all these years.

Checking out the garments I held inside my closet, I had a few choices:

  1.        My purple shirt, the one that made John blush the hardest.
  2.        My best man suit, to celebrate that… do I really need to explain myself again?
  3.        A clean white sheet.
  4.        Nothing?



Option no. 1 was chosen. I took one look at the mirror, checked my hair was in its rightful state, and walked to the living room. No one was there, nor was there anyone walking the steps or inside John's room. When I stepped down the stairs to check if there was a John shaped hole, I saw him entering the door with a bag. In it was a bottle. Brown fluid. More booze. That was a good sign. He gave me a little smile. I noticed he didn't wear his coat, he didn't notice how cold it was outside, he was in a hurry, enthusiasm flashed in his eyes, and his legs showed signs of lacking patience. Oh, now I get it, it was because of me.

John followed me up the stairs, he went to the kitchen and I set on our couch. Decision made out of instincts, haven't trusted them until that moment. John poured us some Jack Daniel, put the glasses on the table and sat the farthest he could from me.

"This is turning ridiculous," I yelled at him.

"Can you blame me for being uptight? Look at you! Your hands are stuck in between your legs, and your back is so straight – what could I deduce about that?"

I laughed, "nice one," I said and took the first step on our second attempt. "I'd deduce that we're both a couple of clueless men, who need to learn to act upon their emotions."

"Took us almost 5 years."

I reached for his hand, and he flinched, "Don't do that. We're not like that, and we're not going to be." He turned his whole body toward me and asked me to come closer. I followed his commands. He put his hands on my thighs again, and before I knew it he locked his lips on mine. The sweet breath that came out of him when his lips approached mine, the sigh he let out when we closed our mouths, felt each other's warmth, it was like he implanted a new cell in my brain. As our tongues found their way to each other, I caught John's cheeks with both hands and laid him on the couch. My hands were moving roughly to his waist. It wasn't a cell, it was animal instinct. I know that now when I look back and think about all that happened afterwards.

A rush of blood to my head had turned me into a tiger, in the hit of passion I tore John's buttoned shirt and he didn't resist. He clung to my neck with his hands as he tried to get his shirt off, and with deep breaths he kissed my neck and whispered into my ear, "take it slow, Sherlock. It's OK."

No, it wasn't OK, I wanted John there and then, I wanted him to get rid of everything that separated him from me, any cloth, fabric, string that wasn't his skin, I had to diminish its presence from the room.

He sucked my ear while running his hands from the southern areas of my back up to the north, where he played with my hair. In a burst of anger I laid him back on the couch, my lips urged me to attach them to his. Again, we were sharing breaths together. I took John's hands and held them tight with one of mine, on the couch handle. I didn't want nothing to interrupt me from the taste of his saliva. This time John, being the fighter he is, fought back. He forcefully made a jump that startled me, and with his now free hands he unbuttoned my shirt. "That's a wardrobe we probably won't want to rip out." How he still managed to make his sarcastic jokes, I will never understand.

The color purple fell on the floor, and I entreated it with John's tight white t-shirt. Our armors were still on, two sets of belts, trousers and socks needed to be expelled from our little classroom. I became mortified at the sight of John's scar. It was still so deep, so fresh, a wound that will never heal. I ran my fingers around it, to feel the wound that broke his shoulder, but will never get to break his will. "You've got one too," he whispered, and softly touched the scar from Mary's shot. I worried he might turn back after reflecting upon what happened with her, but all history or future was erased from his brain. There was a present, it consisted of me, and only me. He gave the scar a little kiss and said it was my turn to lie down.

What a bewildering sensation for a control freak like me, to let his guard down in front of another man. I did as he asked me, while he took my socks, belt and trousers off. That was it, he saw the whole of me, all I had to offer him from the outside. Just a few minutes, and we would know each other all over. John sat and observed. He was Zeus, recharging his bolts so he could hit me as hard as he could. His soft kisses on my chest, nipples and then abdomen were like little thunders, tickling me, making me twitch at every warm touch. Noises, as new as the sensations, were starting to erupt from my mouth, moans that yearned for another piece of what John had to offer.

He did uncover his piece, and, as I suspected, there was another soldier underneath his pants. He thought his height would mislead me to figure out the thickness and strength of his penis but he was wrong. I wasn't surprised, just happy to know another one of my deductions was correct. He lay on top of me, so we could feel each other, my scar met his, my hair tickled his neck, his nose shuffled through the lines of my face. He took my hand and placed it on his penis, letting out a quiet groan. The tiger in me turned into a curious cat who was clueless about his new toy. John laughed a bit, I did too. With one hand he kept my chest stable, and with the other grabbed my soldier. His rustic touch would've been the end of me hadn't he soften it a bit with the touch of his lips on its head. The raw touch of his hand moved to stroke my glands gently. Every lick of his tongue was escorted by various sorts of sighs, I was able to count 23 sorts of voices which I used to affirm John of my pleasure. I couldn't stop it, my whole body was working faster than it ever has, which resulted with my brain speeding up in thoughts of math and John. I ran my hand through his hair, strokes synchronizing to the movement of his head, and along with my sighs were an orchestra of lust. No, not only lust.

Oh, the look of John so silent in his sleep seems so strange to me now. No, it wasn't only lust, it was love as well.

I came quickly, and my fluid sprayed all over John's chest. The white of his skin was decorated with my semen, but he didn't quite realize it. His eyes were fixed on me, like I always liked them, empathy ruled his expressions, and the hand that was on my chest went up to relieve the mind from all of its thoughts. He leaned on me while playing with my hair, and gave me a soft kiss.

There was a flash of light at that moment, Zeus was indeed circling between our walls.

Wait, Johnal.

When did I become so romantic?

Why hadn't I noticed?

There wasn't only one flash, there were several – white and brief. These weren't romantic thunders, nor an illusion.

These were flashes of a camera.

Someone had been watching us.

How come I realized it just now?

I have to get out of bed.

J

 O

   H

      No, I have to get out of bed.


End file.
